


And If I Could Stop The Clocks (Make This Moment Mine)

by geckoholic, helahler



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blizzards & Snowstorms, Captain America Sam Wilson, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-11-18 20:45:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11298510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/helahler/pseuds/helahler
Summary: Caught in a snowstorm after a botched mission, Bucky and Sam find shelter in an abandoned farm house and proceed to make the most out of a shitty situation.





	And If I Could Stop The Clocks (Make This Moment Mine)

**Author's Note:**

> The gorgeous art that inspired this is embedded in the fic. It's been my first choice from claims and I was GIDDY to get it, and extra delighted to find out the artist was an easygoing and enthusiastic collab partner. Thanks for a fun RBB experience! 
> 
> Beta-read by tielan, kiss_me_cassie and lustyjustice. Thanks to all three of you!! ♥ All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Title is from "Stop The Clocks" by Donots.

Bucky never quite developed a taste for the Midwest. He was born there, had relatives there, but even so visits to the backwoods farm of his grandparents always kinda felt like punishment, rather than a fun vacation. He missed the city. All those wide plains and open spaces for him to run through and explore couldn't quite measure up to the convoluted nooks and crannies of the back alleys at home. Those, he knew – out here he'd lose sight of where he was, no landmarks to orient himself, just endless green and yellow crowned by a bright blue sky, the same whichever way he turned. He knew so many kids on the street where he lived would dream of this, running through wheat fields and splashing around in natural ponds, but he hated it. He always wanted to go home as soon as he arrived, wanted to trade those fields and ponds in for familiar hot concrete under his thin shoes or bare feet, for getting doused by cold water from a fire hydrant.

And one thing is for sure, if you can't stand the Midwest in summer? You sure won't like it in winter.

There is no blue or green around here now, not even faint yellow. Everything is snow, and not a pretty white sheen either. Nope, it's weeks old, half-melted and frozen over a few times, further disturbed by fallen dead leaves and animal prints. The new flakes that keep falling, have kept falling for days, are only ever able to dilute the dirt a little, but never to cover it completely. The temperatures are far below freezing, and Bucky can't feel his body anymore, in a way that reminds him uncomfortably of Siberia and all its horrors. He hasn't been in cryo for years, doesn't ever plan to be again, but that doesn't really matter. His body remembers.

“Think of something happy,” Sam says beside him, teeth clattering on every word. “Happy and warm.”

Bucky feels a twinge of guilt. He shouldn't be so whiny; there are worse things such deep cold can cause than feeling numb. And by now Sam must be feeling the cold so fiercely. He tries to remember what that was like, from the war, from the mission that took his life. But there's little memory of that and it won't return, no matter how often he seeks it out. Maybe that's for the better.

“New York cheesecake,” Bucky says. “Fresh out of the oven and still warm, with a cup of steaming hot chocolate. Scoop of cream on top, of course.”

Sam takes the time to halt his steps and glare at him, while rubbing his gloved hands together. “I hate you.”

Head thrown back on a rumbling laugh, Bucky marches past him. It's a little too much movement – because there had been an incident with a bullet grazing his hip the other day that he hadn't been entirely forthright about yet – and he has to set his jaw and grit his teeth to suppress a reaction before he answers. “You don't. You love me.”

Only after waiting long enough to make Bucky pause after all, turning his head back to quirk an eyebrow, Sam starts walking again. Either he did catch something's off, or he's being bratty on purpose. For all his usual discipline, he gets petulant and rebellious when he's in a bad mood. Not like Sam has anyone to rebel against – he's in charge here. The red, white and blue costume underneath the cotton-lined coat and the insulated track pants doesn't mean Falcon anymore, hasn't in months. The mantle of Captain America is Sam’s now, same as the shield strapped to his back, and he gives out the orders.

He nudges Bucky's shoulder when he's caught up. “I do. Fuck knows why, but I do.”

Little clouds of warm breath puff out into the cutting cold when he speaks, and Bucky watches as Sam keeps muttering to himself, his way of working out a problem that's on his mind. And they have plenty of problems – a botched mission, a broken helicopter, and, oh yeah, a sudden snow storm. All of the above might be linked, and that doesn't make solving them any easier. Extracting them in this weather is impossible, and every hour they spend stumbling around in search of temporary shelter means the arms dealers they chased here and then _lost_ get further out of their reach.

Judging from the way the clouds overhead keep getting larger and darker, catching the smugglers won’t be their chief concern for long. Bucky can literally be put on ice and survive. Sam, however, will soon need shelter from the rapidly worsening weather. That’s logical. Natural. Telling him that might mean an argument, though, because Sam dislikes being reminded of the fact that he’s human and his superpower lies more in his skills than who or what he is. Those discussions have never really gone over well, and he hasn’t gotten any more receptive on that topic since Steve retired. The former Captain America, thought to be indestructible, one day stumbled through a wrinkle in time and came out an old man. The new Captain America was never anything but human; he won’t be able to do this job forever either, and he knew that going in. It grates.

“It’s going to get dark soon,” Bucky says, trying to feel his way into the conversation with an argument that will affect both of them. Even the new-and-improved Winter Soldier doesn’t have night vision. Not like he currently sees anything but mist and thick snow anyway, but that's beside the point.

Sam glances to the darkening sky, then eyes Bucky sidelong. “You want me out of the weather. Just say it.”

“Yeah.” Bucky sighs at him, makes no further attempt to hide his frustration _or_ his concern. “I’d very much prefer you don't freeze to death in the middle of fucking nowhere because you're too damn stubborn to pack it in for the night and come back to fight another day.”

The boyfriend card is unfair, and rarely used. Sam is the kind of guy who knows what loss feels like, and appealing to his fear of leaving someone he loves behind tends to be more effective than appealing to his sense of self preservation. Even though he does have the latter. It’s just buried under miles of stubbornness and an inferiority complex that stems from years of working alongside a bunch of superhumans.

“Fine,” Sam says. He stops, looks around. “You find me a hole to crawl into, and I’ll crawl.”

Bucky also casts a glance around, squints to make out anything at all in the heavy snowfall. He slowly turns a few times, feeling Sam’s challenging gaze on him the whole time, before he finally makes out the silhouette of a fence in the distance. And if there’s a fence, there’s got to be a house somewhere. They could knock on the door, ask for a place in the barn or something. Maybe a room, but he won’t dream big right now. _Not out in the snow_ will suffice.

He points the fence out to Sam, who also squints in that general direction, then shrugs his shoulders. “Alright. Lead the way.”

 

***

 

It quickly becomes apparent that the house is uninhabited. They don't even need to knock on the door to figure that out, seeing how the door hangs ajar on broken hinges, and they passed the carcass of a broken down tractor pretty much in the middle of the road a few minutes back. There goes any hope for heat or running water, but hey, at least they'll be out of the sharp, icy wind. It's still an improvement, and a potentially life-saving one.

Sam trots inside after him with open, mocking disdain. “Ah, at least I can't say you never take me anywhere nice.”

“At least you _can_ say I won't let you die in a snow storm,” Bucky counters, “even if it means I'll have to take your bitching for that much longer.”

Making a face at him, Sam marches ahead, craning his head to peek upstairs, then into the old-fashioned kitchen. The latter he deems worthy of a closer inspection, apparently, because he swerves in that direction, and Bucky follows. There's a gas stove that looks about Bucky's age and a long counter with a cast iron sink, and no other modern appliances. The only evidence that someone may have lived here since the area got connected to the general electric supply is a large fridge, vintage by today's standards, open wide, covered in stains of unknown origin. Sam scrunches his nose and redirects his attention to the shelves and cupboards on the other side of the room, opening them one by one, finding nothing but old and dusty dishware, decorated by entire generations worth of spider webs and mouse droppings.

He turns to Bucky and smirks. “Unless you find a way to order pizza or something, I guess we'll be sticking to the emergency rations in our suits.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “The way you tip, I wouldn't even want to make anyone drive through the snow back in New York to get you food.”

“Lies and slander,” Sam says, pushing past him to get out of the kitchen. “That sounds more like your stingy ass, still stuck in the forties and unable to wrap your head around how little the good old dollar is worth these days.”

Sighing by the way of a reply, Bucky climbs after him up the stairs, which creak dangerously but hold, and waits by the top step while Sam opens and closes the doors on the second floor, one by one. After glancing into the third room, he turns and waves, and Bucky follows him inside.

This must have been the master bedroom, or a generous guest room, because it's main feature is a large king-sized bed, flanked on one side by a chest of drawers and a large window on the other, with a huge, massive wooden wardrobe covering the opposite wall on the other side. To Bucky's surprise, there's a comforter left on the bare mattress. The thick material of the curtains by the windows and the design of the bed both look less dated and are relatively intact, so Bucky adjusts his guess on how long this place has been abandoned. Maybe someone was in the process of fixing this place up, and they ran out of money. That's common enough.

Sam heaves the comforter off the bed and flaps it against the floor a few times in attempt to rid it of the worst of the dust, then turns and puts it back on the bed. He sits down and pats the space beside him, and Bucky joins him, swallowing a wince when he twists his hip the wrong way, aggravating the wound from the bullet that barely missed him the other day. Without the distraction of snow and freezing wind whipping his face, Sam seems to have gotten a lot more perceptive, because he cocks his head and looks Bucky up and down.

“What's wrong?” he asks, all teasing gone from his tone. “And don't you dare tell me _nothing_ , because I know you and I have had far too many opportunities to memorize what you look like when you're in pain.”

Bucky huffs, but realizes that denial will only end in an argument and Sam getting him to come clean after a little shouting, so he unzips his jacket and shucks it off, then peels away his uniform until he can show Sam the wound. There's more blood on the fabric of his uniform than he expected, staining it darker than usual, fed by a fresh trickle after traipsing through the woods or hours.

Sam frowns at him, half disapproval, half worry. “You didn't think to tell me about that earlier?”

“It didn't seem relevant,” says Bucky, shrugging. “I can move around just fine, and it'll be healed in a few days. No big deal.”

Sam mouths _no big deal_ , and then gets up and stalks out of the room. Anger and frustration are radiating off him with every step, and that's why Bucky refrains from following, stays right where he is to let Sam cool down before he returns. When he does, he's holding a small brown bottle with a handwritten label Bucky can't read in one hand and a piece of cloth in the other, and Bucky raises an eyebrow at him.

“Found some alcohol,” he says, holding up the bottle. “That shit keeps, right?”

Bucky nods. “It does, but trust me, I don't need – “

“I don't care what you think you need,” Sam interrupts, waving a hand in a way that Bucky takes to mean he wants the rest of his uniform gone so he can work. “Because if you think I'm letting you walk around like this any longer you're sorely mistaken. I'm gonna at least get the blood off you and clean that wound, and I expect you to sit still and let me do it if you ever wanna to get laid again, understood?”

An empty threat, Bucky knows, because Sam cites it in every other argument they have and has yet to follow through, but he moves to undress anyway. He stands up, only sitting back down when he's got his clothes and uniform on the floor, sitting there shirtless and with an expectantly hefted eyebrow. It's still cold enough that he's shivering a little, half-naked like this, but the chill is much less biting in here, and the comforter is warming where it's bunched around both their hips, already storing and preserving body heat between them.

Sam works quickly, wiping away the dried blood from the fringes of the wound first, and then searching for Bucky's gaze before he swipes directly over the singed flesh. It's not very deep, and Bucky suspects it will indeed be gone without a trace in seventy-two hours tops, but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt now. He sucks a breath in between his teeth, earning him a concerned glance from Sam, which he meets with a reassuring smile.

Once they're done, Sam bends to pick up Bucky's undershirt from the floor and trusts it into his hands. “Here. We don't have anything cleaner right now, and that's already ruined. Press it against the wound until it stops bleeding.”

Bucky obeys and watches Sam stand and discard the now almost empty bottle and the bloodied cloth in pile by the door, then pace the room a few times. “I'm fine,” he says when Sam hasn't sat back down after a few minutes. “It's not worth agonizing about, come back here.”

Sam turns to glare at him. “What you mean is that _you're_ not worth agonizing about, or that it doesn't matter when you're hurt, because you spent decades doing the same to others.” He holds up a hand, a harsh and cutting gesture, when Bucky opens his mouth to reply. “Stop. Don't say anything. We've been there before, and I’ve had it up to _here_ with your shit. You're serum'd up. Cool. I know. But you still hurt when you're injured. And I'm still fed up like you wouldn't believe with watching you refuse to acknowledge that, all because you think it's some part of a fucked up need to atone for crimes you committed while _brainwashed_.”

“I – “ Bucky starts, intending to deny that, defend himself, tell him that's not true. It's just that it's not worth it making a fuss about such a small hurt when he's been through so much worse and hardly even feels the pain. But he suspects that won't help his case; all it'd accomplish is making Sam feel worse, setting him on track to think about everything that happened to Bucky when he was with Hydra, and so he trails off, taking a breath. “I'm sorry. You're right. I should have said something.”

That, at least, makes Sam rush back over and sit down beside him again. He scoots up close, taking the shirt from Bucky and brushing his hand away to see if the bleeding stopped. The result seems to satisfy him, because he throws the shirt on the ground and Bucky feels his fingertips ghost around the edge of the wound. “Damn right you should've.”

There's something in his tone that sounds like grief, that sounds pained, and suddenly Bucky remembers that there's two sides to this argument, and that he'd be out of his head with worry and frustration if their positions were reversed – that he did feel much the same only maybe an hour prior, and how that makes him a raging hypocrite. The point here isn't what Bucky thinks about himself, his potential to deal with pain or his threshold for the same. The point is that Sam will have to watch him ignore his own needs and push past injury or discomfort, in silence, never saying a word. The point is that Sam can't rely on him to communicate what's wrong with him, if there's something wrong with him, and how that might seem like a breach of the trust that's essential for both their professional and personal relationship. The point is that Sam _deserves to know_ because constantly worrying and watching out for signs of said injuries or discomfort is an added burden he shouldn't have to carry, that Bucky shouldn't _make_ him carry.

“I'm sorry,” he repeats, voice sounding small and stricken to his own ears, and looks away. “I really am.”

But Sam doesn't let him hide. He shifts to stay in his line of sight, then puts a hand on Bucky's cheek and gently makes him turn back to look at him again. Once Bucky relents, he leans forward and presses a quick kiss to his temple. “I know you are. But you gotta promise me that you'll try to remember that there's one person in this room who cares whether you live or die, or whether you're in pain or scared or unhappy.”

And that should be easy to remember, because Bucky himself cares _so much_ about that when it comes to Sam. He knows he's loved, too, and that should be a comfort and reminder as well, but sometimes all it _does_ remind him of is that Sam shouldn't have to get bogged down in his nonsense. That he doesn't deserve him, with all that blood on his hands, that he doesn't deserve to –

“Stop,” Sam says, and while Bucky wasn't paying attention he's scooted closer still, both arms now gently, carefully wrapped around his middle. “I love you. And don't you believe for a second that there's any damned thing in your past, present, or future that would make me change my mind.”

His hands are resting on the rise of Bucky's hips, and the touch is so warm in the cold room, now that Bucky's noticed it's there, that it suddenly feels searing. He leans in, just a little, so that their noses almost touch, and his gaze falls down to Sam's mouth. It's the last thing either of them should be thinking about right now, but he wants to feel more of that warmth, wants to feel it everywhere, and he closes the rest of the distance and kisses him. Sam startles at first, eyes wide, but then he recovers with a grin which Bucky can feel against his lips. He kisses back, hands now smoothing up Bucky's sides, leaving a trail of fire in their wake on every inch of naked skin they pass.

Their position is awkward and not very conducive to taking this any further, and before Bucky can draw attention to that fact Sam maneuvers him around. Bucky goes willingly, pliantly, as he's pushed onto his back. He ignores the somewhat uninviting smell of the dusty comforter and stretches out on the bed, shifts his hips when he feels Sam pull at the seam of his pants. He's a little surprised that Sam allows the distraction so willingly, that he doesn't push to finish their conversation, put maybe Sam's done making his point. Or maybe he's still making it. Either way, here's to seizing the opportunity before he can change his mind. Bucky bends to get the rest of his clothes out of the way, pants and briefs and boots and socks, and when he's lying back down Sam's eyes meet his. There's hunger in them now, though not enough to edge out the concern. This is still proving his point, an extension of the declaration he made a few minutes ago.

Then Sam smiles, his gaze wandering away from Bucky's and trailing down his body, and Bucky gives up on trying to figure out his motivation. There are more important things happening that deserve his full attention, first and foremost the way Sam's shuffling back and bending down to mouth a line from Bucky's collarbone to his navel, and also the rather unfair fact that Sam's still fully dressed and Bucky can't touch him back. He murmurs a complaint, then decides that making Sam listen will take too long, so he just pushes at his chest, tugs at his uniform, until Sam catches a clue, sits up on his haunches, and grins. He kicks off his boots and shuffles out of his leg wear, but takes his sweet time with the rest, having found a position between Bucky's spread legs that enables him to press his thigh to Bucky's growing erection. He sheds his jacket, then fiddles with the upper half of his uniform.Bucky finds that he's done waiting him out and reaches out to help things along. He hooks his fingers underneath the hem and pulls, and Sam tsks at him but does bend forward so Bucky can drag it all the way off. Once that's accomplished, Bucky works his hands underneath Sam's underwear, enjoying the shiver Sam gives from feeling cold fingers on hot skin, and it appears he's done teasing, because he crosses his arms to take off his undershirt as well. It's now Bucky's turn to let his fingers glide over Sam's skin, up from his hip bone to the swell of his ribs, and then fan his hands out on Sam's back and pull him further down. The air in the room is still cold and Bucky wants him close, wants them both to warm each other, skin on skin. He doesn't even think about the other opportunities this position presents, not until Sam reaches down between their bodies and aligns them, braced on one arm, the other hand wrapped around Bucky and himself at the same time. A hot gust of pleasure shoots up Bucky's spine.

The first few strokes are rough, dry, but it isn't long until the smell of sex fills the room and precome – his, or Sam's, or both, Bucky doesn't care – slicks the slide of their cocks in Sam's grip. And given the cold, and Bucky's injury, and the rather unsanitary setting they picked, they should probably leave it at that; Bucky should let Sam jerk them both off like this and then they should at least put their underwear back on and huddle underneath the comforter rather than making out on top of it, but Bucky wants more. He knows they can't go all the way, neither of them packing condoms or lube in their official uniforms, but that still leaves them a few other options.

He works himself up on his elbows and shakes his head, not quite able to find the words to voice his request, trailing off on a moan as soon as he tries. He licks his lips and searches Sam's eyes, then lowers them to Sam's crotch, and hopes that gets his idea across.

And because Sam has always been quick on the uptake and able to read Bucky like an open book, he does. After another thrust through his tightening fist, he lets go and leans back, rearranging them until he's the one on his back and Bucky's the one kneeling between his legs. Bucky leans forward and swipes his tongue over the head of Sam's cock, eliciting a curse from between gritted teeth. He allows himself a smug smirk before he takes it into his mouth in one go, then bobs back up, his pace quick and unforgiving. The noises Sam makes spill over in breathless pants. One hand between his own legs, pumping himself, the other wrapped around Sam's thigh to keep him from moving too much, he sucks him off with a precise skill stemming from years of familiarity with each other's bodies. There's a litany of obscenities falling from Sam's lips now, his hand batting at Bucky's head, and oh, but he should know better. Bucky doesn't need any such warnings, has no intention to back down, and moments later he feels the bitter, salty taste of Sam's come on his tongue. He sits up and throws his head back on a dirty moan, pushing out his hips to let Sam watch as he teases out his own climax.

After wiping his hands off on the comforter, then grimacing because that didn't exactly leave them cleaner, he lies down next to Sam. They're not cuddling yet, not exactly, but they're close enough that their arms and hips are touching, and Sam cocks his head to the side, watching him.

“That's one hell of a way to change the topic,” he says, bumping against Bucky's shoulder.

At this point the cold is making itself known again, the arousal receding and letting the reality of their current situation swoosh back in. With some effort Bucky makes himself get up just long enough to retrieve their underwear. He puts his own shirt on the wrong way to keep the dried blood that’s stiffening the fabric from chafing on his wound, and then they both slip underneath the comforter. It’s still not exactly warm under the covers, but with both of their cocooned bodies warming the space between them, it’s just about bearable for the night.

 

 

 

 

***

 

The morning sun peeks into the room when Bucky wakes up, not all that powerful yet but startlingly bright, and he extracts himself from Sam’s embrace and walks over to the window. Drapes held to the side, he peers through the window, and he’s met by a winter wonderland the likes of which he’s only ever seen in movies. Or in Siberia, possibly, but it’s not like he had the space of mind back then to appreciate the scenery. Everything is covered in a thick, fresh, undisturbed layer of fine white snow, the fields and the fences and the stupid old tractor they passed on their way here and the tree line in the distance, and it all sits under a beautiful blue sky.

He turns and looks back at the bed, at Sam’s sleeping form, and he’s almost reluctant to leave. Of course they’ll have to, and they will do so soon – there’s still no heating here and no food beyond their rations, and besides there’s a mission to try and pick back up now that comms should be available again – but right this moment… right this moment, everything is so _peaceful_. Maybe there is something to be said about rural charm, after all.

Sam stirs, rubs his eyes and yawns, and Bucky strolls back over to the bed and plops down on the edge.

“Want some dried and basically flavorless beef?” he asks, already fishing for the emergency rations in their uniforms.

Sam groans, sitting up. “The next time you get me breakfast in bed, I demand _fried_ bacon and toast and eggs and orange juice, at the very least,” he complains, but he does accept the plastic-wrapped ration Bucky hands him.

They eat in silence, get dressed, and make themselves comfortable once more while they try and connect the comms. The first few attempts are unsuccessful – even the best and most advanced technology meets its limits if there's no signal available – but then the line crackles and Natasha's voice sounds through both their earpieces.

“Oh, finally,” she says. “I was getting worried we'd have to hold auditions for our next Captain America soon.”

Her tone is light and teasing. The worry and relief underneath that front is only recognizable to someone who knows her well, has known her for years. Sam nudges Bucky and they exchange a glance; they both caught it, then.

“Rumors of our death have been greatly exaggerated,” Bucky replies, then shoots Sam a self-satisfied grin for having found a fitting pop culture quote to use.

Sam dutifully rolls his eyes. “Alright, if we're done joking around, could you maybe send someone to pick us up? It's still freezing out here and I haven't had feeling in all my fingers and toes at once since yesterday. I'd very much like to keep a full set of both, so _please_ get us back to proper civilization.”

 _Proper civilization_ , for Sam, means a place with more than ten thousand inhabitants, a workable cab or uber network, at least three different burger joints, and no less than two coffee shops. Bucky knows this because Sam doesn't tire of complaining about being stuck in Backwoods, Nowhere whenever they're in a town that doesn't meet those standards.

Natasha speaks to someone in the room with her, voice growing distant, before she replies. “I've got your coordinates, and exfil is on the way. Find yourself a field or something for easy pickup.” She snickers. “But if my map is correct then _that_ won't be too much of a problem.”

 

***

 

The next few hours are filled with a helicopter ride, debrief and discussions regarding their aborted mission, and a stint in medical to make sure everyone appendages did, indeed, survive the experience unscathed. For now there’s nothing else they can do; finding their arms dealers again is now a game of Clue, and that's neither Sam's nor Bucky's favorite part of the job. They'll jump back in when there's a lead.

When Bucky returns from medical, Sam's already in sweatpants and a t-shirt, parked on the couch in their shared quarters. Bucky nods at the space beside him. Sam scoots to make room and lifts an eyebrow.

“You were gone awhile,” Sam observes. He’s looking at the TV, not at Bucky, and Bucky can’t quite read him.

Is he still pissed? Was he ever pissed or really just worried? The line blurs sometimes, and Bucky can’t tell one from the other. It’s not just Sam; it’s everybody. He used to be good at navigating conflict, negotiating and mediating it, but that was a long, long time ago. Words don’t make quite that much sense anymore. But Sam’s words the other day did land, and maybe he’ll just show him the result.

He slouches against the backrest and yawns, then rolls up the fabric of his sweatshirt to reveal the fresh bandages decorating his side. “Cleaned again, disinfected and taped. They took their time.”

One corner of Sam's mouth lifts into a lopsided smile, and he reaches out to brush his fingers over the bandage. “It's good to know you're actually listening to me _sometimes_.”

Yawning wider than before, Bucky lets the sweatshirt fall back into place. “Figured I owed you for letting me whisk you away to relative safety,“ he says, shifting in search of the most comfortable position. He doesn't try to keep the small teasing smirk off his face. “Don't let it get to your head.”

**Author's Note:**

> geckoholic on tumblr: [lostemotion](http://lostemotion.tumblr.com)
> 
> helahler on tumblr: [helahler](http://helahler.tumblr.com)
> 
> If you enjoyed this, you can share the fic on Tumblr [here](http://helahler.tumblr.com/post/162435807909/and-if-i-could-stop-the-clocks-make-this-moment) and the art [here!](http://helahler.tumblr.com/post/162435886379/helahler-caught-in-a-snowstorm-after-a-botched)


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